


Silent Nights

by dustlines



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel (Supernatural) is Not Okay, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Communication, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Castiel, Friendship, Gratuitous comfort, Hugging, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Possibly Pre-Slash, Season/Series 08, Sharing a Bed, Shippy Gen, Touch-Starved Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2020-06-30 02:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19843837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustlines/pseuds/dustlines
Summary: "You like being touched," Dean realizes, and Castiel's eyes widen just slightly."Irrelevant. It's an unnecessary—""It calms you down.""I do notneedto becalmed."





	Silent Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2013 as a _super_ -intense gen, displaying a vulnerable moment when one person realized someone they care about had an unmet need that was hurting them and then tried to help fulfill it, but this can certainly be interpreted in other ways, too. Enjoy it however you like! I got put on a lot of rec lists because of this one, and I'm still exceptionally fond of it. It's soooooo tactile! Sometimes the simple comfort of touch can be overwhelming when you're not used to it, and a _lot_ of calming touch is even more so. There's SO MUCH comfort in here that even I, who wrote it, feel a bit wobbly when reading it, lol!
> 
> **Minor side note** : it might add to the experience to remember that this took place during season 8, the season in which Castiel outright confessed to Dean that he was afraid he might kill himself, so Dean's worry for him was pretty elevated at the time. This is not necessary to know, per se, but I do think it adds a little extra flavor _to_ know it while reading this particular piece. :)

* * *

Dean watches Castiel's fingertips drift through the ring of condensation left behind by Dean's last glass of whiskey, the drink absent from the table now for several hours. The angel is a cool and detached figure in the quiet night, his coat barely swaying as he moves, though a certain shadowing in his eyes reveals the stress he is trying so hard to keep concealed.  
  
"This is a home base?" Castiel says, softly. He looks so sad when he says this that a noose of pain seems to squeeze around Dean's ribcage.  
  
"Hmm?" Dean sinks into one of the ornate, aged leather seats lining the walls. He has the unwanted thought that maybe he's still asleep, the signs of rich inheritance around him not seeming like something he's ever deserved. Cas had appeared in the pitch blackness of his bedroom a few minutes before, startling Dean out of a dead sleep by sitting down on the edge of his bed. Unable to see who was there, Dean had barreled out the other end of his blankets, hackles raised and blasting a flashlight beam straight into Castiel's face until the angel just stared up at him and asked if Dean could spare a moment to keep him company. Even now, Dean feels half-awake and muggy, though at least his heart isn't about to explode from terror anymore.  
  
"Oh." Dean scrubs a palm down his face, blinking the scratchy murkiness from his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. What do you think? Pretty cool, huh?"  
  
Cas sways closer to an oil painting on the wall, the intricate pigments of a woman's face covered with a haze of brown dust. He smears away the dust from just her eyes, letting the light in to touch her again. He doesn't answer Dean's question, instead says, with a hoarse voice, "Manet."  
  
"Wait." A jolt of shock lodges in Dean's chest, mind spinning at the implications of that. " _Monet_ painted that?"  
  
Castiel's mouth twitches, though with what emotion, Dean has no idea. "No." He steps away from the painting, rubbing his dusty fingers off on his pocket. "Though the similarities of their names caused many disagreements at the time."  
  
"19th century pissing contests." Dean snorts. "Nice." He grins vaguely in Castiel's direction, though he fails to shift a single inch of the angel's face. Castiel stands against the wall with the same stillness as the painting behind him, his jaw locked like he's trying to hold himself together. Heaving a sigh, Dean stands from his chair to walk over to the table at the center of the room, where he taps the wooden grains of the surface. "Cas, come sit down. You look like hell."  
  
Here, the first touch of emotion reaches Castiel's face: annoyance. "I look nothing like that place."  
  
"No." The memories that spring up at this admission make Dean deeply uncomfortable, and a chill runs up his back. He pushes those thoughts away and taps the table once more. "But seriously, get over here."  
  
The angel comes closer, a note of something close to wariness in his eyes, like he's a scared animal afraid he's about to be cornered. Not touching him, Dean pulls out a chair for Cas to sit on, then walks away from him as he sinks into it, sensing Cas needs the space.  
  
"I haven't seen you in a while." Dean tries not to make this statement sound like a question, tries to calm down the churning in his guts that corresponds with the angel's haggard, tired appearance. Cas doesn't look dirty like he had in Purgatory, but the broken strain in his eyes — covered poorly by angelic indifference — is somehow worse. "You don't have to do that, you know."  
  
Pulling his chair in, Castiel braces his elbows on the table, hands also flattened on the swirling wood grains. He looks like he's trying to hold himself up when he swallows and says, "Do what?"  
  
"Pretend you're okay when you're not."  
  
Castiel flinches, his shoulders twitching like some part of him is jolting behind him. "Oh." On the table, his fingernails bite into his palms. "You're worried about me."  
  
Dean leans against the wall next to the telescope, arms crossed and brows furrowed. "Cas," He puts meaning into every word when he says, slowly, "you went to _Heaven_."  
  
Castiel frowns, eyelashes dashing shadows down his face when he looks down. "You're thinking of what I confessed to you. My concern for what I might do if I went there."  
  
"Uh, yeah, maybe just a _little_ , genius. You wouldn't even — you wouldn't —" He swings his arms out to the side, feeling an unwanted rage begin to bubble up in his veins at the thought of how many times he'd reached Cas' voicemail instead of Cas himself, or prayed to what felt like empty air, or even all those times he got Sam to try the same, all without getting anywhere. "I kept calling you! I thought you might be—" With effort, Dean makes himself see his anger for the concern it is, and, with a few deep breaths, he lowers his arms and looks to the side, jaw firm. "You scared me."  
  
The confession is brittle in the 3:00 AM air, a candyspun breath of air that breaks like spiderweb cracks and dissolves between them. It's somehow easier to be honest when it's dark outside and everyone else is sleeping peacefully, for once behind doors that feel secure enough to keep away all the evils of the world outside.  
  
After a while, Cas nods, looking numb. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and Dean's gaze turns laser sharp on his mouth, waiting. Perhaps the gaze is too intense, for Cas looks down, unable to meet Dean's gaze. "I'm sorry. I— "  
  
"Don't. Don't just say that— " Dean grits his teeth, again. The skin on the back of his neck is warm when he rubs it down, stress dampening the collar of his sleep shirt with sweat. "Look, just. What can I do? What do you need?"  
  
Castiel's eyes flicker up, all too clear and calm. His voice is the same when he says, "You don't need to care for everyone, Dean. It's not your responsibility."  
  
Dean shuts his eyes, moving his hand from his neck to the sudden throbbing between his eyes. "Wow, Cas, you really don't—" He doesn't know why sentences suddenly seem endless, their unspoken words stretching out too far to gather back up. With a slow inhale, he walks back over to Cas and drags out the chair beside him. The chair moves with a scraping of wood against smooth floorboards until it faces the angel, and then Dean sits down on it and leans towards him, hands clasped between his knees. "We gotta talk, buddy." The words hurt coming out, and Dean realizes he, _Dean Winchester_ , hunter extraordinaire, is scared. "And you need to listen."  
  
Castiel's head tilts, his hands pulling lightly from the table's surface to land on his thighs instead. His eyes squint as though to say, _but I always listen to you_ , and he looks confused that Dean doesn't already know that. Still, he says, "All right," and leans back in his chair, waiting with his hands sitting limply in his lap.  
  
Suddenly given the floor, Dean flounders, not knowing exactly what to say next.  
  
"Uh... okay." He takes his pride, crams it deep into his stomach and shuts the door in its face. He catches Cas' eyes, not wavering even though Cas's gaze sharpens to match the intensity Dean thinks must be coming off of him, too. "Cas." His throat feels dry, and powdery like chalk. He licks his lips and continues, "I'm not sure I've done such a good job showing you what friends are supposed to be like."  
  
Cas' lips press together, a small frown line appearing between his brows. "You have been a good friend," he assures, and the admission sounds automatic, like it's something he doesn't even have to question.  
  
Something in Dean's gut clenches painfully at that. "No, no, I really haven't been. Well, sometimes. I'm trying to be now, anyway. It's... you've put up with a lot from me, Cas."  
  
"You were enduring much at the time. I'm not—"  
  
"No, stop. That's not. That's really no excuse for the way I—"  
  
"I don't blame you for how you treated me. What I was doing—"  
  
"You _should!"_  
  
Cas' eyes flash, dangerously. "Why? To support your desire to punish yourself? It's over now, Dean. It's forgotten."  
  
Without quite knowing what he's doing, Dean's hand lands on Castiel's, folding around the angel's fingers like a vice. "And I will not support _your_ attempts to punish yourself now! This is ridiculous, Cas! You need to cut this out! Friends are supposed to help each other! They're _supposed_ to take responsibility for each other when they're not doing well enough to do it themselves!"  
  
Cas goes very, very quiet, a tense fury humming in the skin of his hand, still under Dean's palm. "I am an angel, Dean." He scowls, and Dean does not think he is imagining the slight tingling of heat and electricity gathering in the air around them. "I am hardly defenseless."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Dean pulls his hand back, abruptly, and he doesn't miss the dent in Castiel's anger that appears when the angel leans towards the absent touch and then yanks himself back with a look of vague horror, quickly contained.  
  
"You like being touched," Dean realizes, and Castiel's eyes widen just slightly.  
  
"Irrelevant. It's an unnecessary—"  
  
"It calms you down."  
  
"I do not _need_ to be _calmed_."  
  
Dean squints, calculating moments backwards in his head. All the shoulder pats, the clenching of Castiel's fist the last time he hugged him, and the small, casual moments of contact that happen every day when a person spends any significant amount of time around someone else. He thinks of how Castiel stands too close when he's not thinking about personal space, and too far away when he is, as though forcibly restraining himself for the good of those around him.  
  
"How long have you needed someone to—"  
  
"Stop!" Castiel slams his hands on the table, and it rattles as an extension of the sudden, uncontrolled shaking of his hands. "I do not _need_ —"  
  
Dean puts a hand on the back of Castiel's neck, and complete stillness descends on them both. There's a clock ticking in the background, light and constant, and Castiel's hair is soft where it brushes against the back of Dean's hand. Somewhere in the massive house, Sam is sleeping, but if they haven't managed to wake him up yet, they're probably not going to.  
  
Castiel makes a choking noise, his eyes shutting like he's bracing himself for a terrible impact. He breathes shallowly through his nose, looking down, his chest heaving. When Dean lightly massages the back of Castiel's neck, the angel shudders all the way down his body.  
  
"No," he stammers, but he doesn't move away. "You don't need to—"  
  
"Shut up, Cas," Dean says, softly. He keeps rubbing Castiel's neck, running up and down the sunken tendons and hidden vertebrae beneath the angel's skin and shirt collar.  
  
"I... Dean, I'm... f-fine."  
  
The stammering alone gives Cas away. Always precise in his language, only extreme upset could ever change that about him. Dean flattens his palm so that the warmth of his entire hand is sinking into Castiel's neck.  
  
Cas exhales, long and shaky, and the facade of angelic indifference is completely broken when he opens his eyes. There are tears pooling at their corners, stress lines deep around his mouth as he grits his teeth. His hands, back under the table now, are white-knuckled around his knees.  
  
"Dean, I don't deserve—"  
  
Dean squeezes his hand, just a light, affectionate push at the skin where Castiel's neck meets his shoulders, now hunched and shrinking under Dean's touch. Castiel's eyes flutter shut, the tension around his eyelids causing fat tears to slip down his cheeks. Raising a fist to brush them away, Cas breathes like he's just come back from a long run.  
  
"Dean," he tries, just one more time before falling silent. He leans into the touch, bracing himself against it. Dean pushes back just as hard, letting himself be the contact point where Cas can tether himself to this moment of comfort, if only for a moment.  
  
"Shh," Dean says, his voice barely audible. He knows Cas has latched onto him with every sense he has, looking for the deception or the hidden meaning that Dean knows Cas will, eventually, realize he isn't going to find. He waits for Cas to realize that Dean is actually doing something for him that has no cost or consequence, something Cas doesn't have to earn, only accept.  
  
When that moment arrives, Cas sags under Dean's hand, beginning to sway under the calming pressure. Each gentle push of Dean's hand against his neck moves him like he's a paper doll, fragile and light. He opens his eyes sometimes, hazy and unfocused but always landing on Dean for the reassuring nods he needs before he can shut his eyes again.  
  
When Dean's hand starts to get tired, he just switches to the other one. Cas doesn't seem to mind, or even notice. Dean wonders if Cas has ever felt his body relax like this before, and realizes, with a pang, that he probably hasn't. The angel's existence has been rife with peril since the moment he landed here, and Dean doesn't know how he's managed to handle it for so long, especially without friendly, easy moments of affection like this to keep him going.  
  
He feels a lump grow in his throat, something large and dark and thorny, the kind of feeling he's always tried to pretend he doesn't have. Not waiting for it to fade, he scoots his chair closer to Castiel's.  
  
"Hey," he says, and if it's more a stammer than an actual word, well, who the hell cares? No one here is going to call him out on it, certainly not Cas, who's always accepted him pretty much as-is. "You mind if I—?"  
  
Cas nods, a little too abruptly. He raises an arm when Dean moves in to settle his own arms around Castiel's waist. Castiel's arm, as Dean settles against him, sinks to rest lightly on his shoulders. Dean's face sits in the crook of space between Castiel's ear and shoulder, and when he inhales, he sees Castiel's hair move towards him from the breath. The angel smells like the top of a snow-capped mountaintop, bright and vivid with a hint of lightning.  
  
A second later, Castiel's hand lands hesitantly on the back of Dean's neck, holding him there in the same way Dean had done for him. Dean tenses for just a second, having not realized how comforting that really felt and having not expected the calm it spreads through him. When Castiel sighs, though, Dean can't help but relax with him.  
  
"Huh," he mumbles, and now that he's here, he realizes he's not sure if he wants to move. Cas is warm, his touch soothing against Dean's neck. He can feel the sleep Castiel had interrupted rising back in him, calling for Dean to shut his eyes and just blink out, into a gentle oblivion. He blinks a few times, then pulls back.  
  
They look at each other for a long pause, Cas watching Dean with no small amount of trust and fondness. The angel doesn't look completely okay, but it's a step in the right direction. Perhaps emboldened by this, Dean doesn't hesitate to take Castiel's hand in his and pull him into a standing position. The angel goes without any resistance, his muscles loose and pliable under the swaying of his coat.  
  
Still holding Cas' hand, Dean walks with him through the halls and back into the shadows of his bedroom.  
  
They lie down on Dean's bed without words, Dean facing Castiel and pulling him against his chest. He tugs his blankets over them both as Cas' eyes shut, the tension lines on the angel's forehead smoothing out when Dean rests his hand on the back of Castiel's neck, and within a few minutes their combined heat is warming them both inside the fleece cocoon.  
  
"S'nice," Castiel mumbles. He's hardly moving, just resting his arm over Dean's ribs. It's too dark to see each other, but Dean can feel the gentle rise and fall of Castiel's breathing when he adds, with a hitch of breath, "Is that all right?"  
  
Dean keeps stroking the back of his neck, not sure if he's being apologetic or something else that he doesn't quite know how to name yet. "Wouldn't be here if it wasn't."  
  
Castiel relaxes again, his body loosening. Dean isn't sure if angels with their mojo still working even _can_ sleep, but when Castiel's breathing levels out and he sinks even deeper into the mattress, Dean has his answer.  
  
Driven by some strange, foreign impulse, Dean leans blindly forward until his lips find the crown of Castiel's hair. He lays a light kiss there, then settles down himself.  
  
"Better be here when I wake up," he grumbles, and Castiel's small, answering groan says that maybe he wasn't so asleep after all.  
  
"I make no promises."  
  
Dean laughs, the mattress shaking a little beneath him. "Then answer your phone if I call. Spare me the heart attack."  
  
Castiel hums, voice sounding suspiciously sleepy. "All right," he says, barely a whisper but still resoundingly _honest_.  
  
Dean hugs him even closer, and Cas tightens his hold in reply. When sleep claims them both for the night, it's a calming, nurturing presence that doesn't frighten either one of them at all.  
  
Dean thinks, in some quiet corner of his mind, that he could definitely get used to this.

.  
  
2013.09.02

[.](https://dustlines.livejournal.com/6781.html)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments if you like what I write! I am a lonely soul, and I need feedback to feel like what I do matters to others. 💙


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